


No Mistake

by salanaland



Series: Kenway family feels [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, But he'd literally rather die, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Haytham needs a hug, Stream of Consciousness, Yes I mean literally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham's last stream of consciousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Mistake

You trust everyone but me, and I trust none but you--but doubts proven and promises broken have started to whittle away your faith in your fellow man, I see. Most would not claim you fellow; I have seen the hurt and rejection in your eyes when they call you beast and savage--you and I both know that your savagery is pale and light-eyed, and your handsome face is by far the only worthwhile gift I've given you. You stand athwart two worlds, and we would both be better men had I broken free of mine before your birth. Was I afraid, then, of men you threatened but five years later? Did I cling to a silver ring of lies when I could have had truth, and trust, and a golden band? I suppose I am that weak, shamed and surpassed by lover and child. Your mother was strong and wise, a far better and braver person than I, and I am thankful you take after her.

I could have fought a fire, for you. I could have given you a sword, a bow, as a father should. As mine did. But I failed you every day of your life, even when you were but a secret that could never be told me.

I wonder if I wear this unhappiness as poorly as you do.

There is an unconscionable thing I have considered. I am trapped in my own mistakes, thinking thoughts I never should. But you are no mistake: rather, my escape.

I understand your reluctance to wound. For just a second there, your stance--the ground does not pitch and roll, you know--I expected a pale face, blonde hair and scruff, under your white hood. I never hit as hard as I should have, in training. I understand, I promise you. But this is no practice, how can I convince you this is life and death? Your life. Always, your life.

You offered me surrender. Being spared is no prize! Every string and every shackle still will hold me, every moral flaw and wicked deed will make me less than human, every move I make will hurt you despite my intent. You will ever look for the best in me and never find it, for it no longer exists within this tattered soul. The best of me is you alone.

I aspire only to this shred of virtue--you shall not be my final kill, child. That was last week, another young man snuffed out, merely for standing on a roof waving a musket. No more, no more. I am finished. Relieved. Duties I should never have taken. Habits I should never have practiced. Plans I do not wish to enact. A thought I wish I had never thought.

Notice! No pistol or sword in my hands. I do not stab with dagger or blade. Your hand on the ground, I have not broken nor pinned it. A hundred openings for you to take advantage of.

I forgive you for what you are yet to do.

I do not want to weigh you down; I must lash with words, tell you the first and last lies I ever shall. You can bind wounds of the heart with anger and hate. They will serve you well enough for a time. I know that, lovely fool that you are, you will skewer your own heart when you stab me. Despite how I have failed you, you love the father you cannot trust and cannot save and cannot spare.

A thousand pardons for the grief and regret you will feel. A thousand thanks for my freedom.

Oh, son, why haven't you struck yet?


End file.
